Gentleman's Game
by whispers of willows
Summary: Stella is sent by an acquaintance to assist a man she knows nothing about. Set in 19th century; Obviously AU. Mac/Stella.


There was a candlelight flickering behind the glass. That's how she knew how to find him, wandering through the darkened cobblestone streets, passing dormant households deep in the midst of dreams. Not even the sound of the rats rummaging through the alleyways or a wisp of renegade wind crossed her path. As far as she knew, she was alone in her wakefulness – save for one.

Rumors told her it was because most nights he spent restless, pacing the traces of dark floorboards mottled with the light of his candle in the window or reading by its glow. They said he was a clever man, lively in the means of pleasant conversation, but all the while taciturn and rather disagreeable in his silences. His elegance and high stature in society gained him access to gatherings and the occasional ball held in the countryside, but his attendance was equally, if not more, rare than these few occurrences. Mostly they strayed far away from him and indulged their petty existences comprised of frills and lace.

Knowing this allowed the impropriety of knocking at a gentleman's door in the dead of the night navigate her with stubborn mind with more ease. Who was she but a woman of no consequence and no family to recommend her to the affluence of London? She knew her place well, having it relayed to her as often as the latest fashion peacocks would deem necessary – _outsider_. But that was hardly going to impede her task.

Her hands, roughened by callus, rapped twice against the door. For a moment, nothing seemed to stir within the lonely house and at once the cold seemed to gather around her, filling her to the brim with tremors. She knew she had not been mistaken – a candle in the window on the last apartment on the cobblestone street.

At last, the faint thud of footsteps resounded from behind the door and it was slowly opened, a sign of vigilance in the face of unexpected company. She held the parchment tighter, molding the texture to her insistent hands.

"Can I be of any assistance, miss?" He asked.

The candle in his window had been removed, now stationed before him in a weary grip. The radiant flame threw shadows across a pale, weatherworn face, but it was his eyes that surprised her. The color of home – a bright and unmistakable blue sea against the vague, austere colors of mist-strewn London.

"I am looking for a Mr. Taylor and have been informed that I would find him here."

He regarded her for a moment, as if deciding. But he seemed to falter, his shoulders rolling forward in the slightest form of a slouch and his footsteps, as he shuffled aside to permit her entry, seemed calculated even against the lavish rugs thrown haphazardly across the foyer.

"You'll find a Mr. Taylor right here. I suppose it's for you to decide whether or not I'm the gentleman you're looking for," He gestured to himself vaguely.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Taylor, for intruding at such a late hour," she paused and held out the parchment for him to take. "But I believe I can be of assistance to you. I have been sent by a Mr. Flack of the countryside, a gentleman of both our acquaintances, to be of service during the investigation of an execution of a close companion. Mr. Flack has informed me that you are in need of aid."

Traces of doubt and question flooded his expression, but it was so warily guarded that she had nearly missed them, if she had not been paying such careful attention.

"Mr. Flack, you say? Of Lyme?"

"The very same, sir."

He replaced the parchment into her hands after briefly skimming the words. "He is mistaken. I am in no need of assistance."

He turned away from the door, his footsteps echoing down the corridors. She followed. "You may stay here for the remainder of the night."

"Mr. Taylor, I beg your pardon but…I am quite capable of uncovering a lie when I have encountered one. Even one so artfully concealed as yours, sir."

"I have no intentions of lying to you, miss," he replied, cryptic. "This way, now."

He led her down the darkened halls, illuminated only transiently by the candle now beginning to falter in his hand. Her mind, however, never accepted the prospect of departure in the morning, even as he seemed so adamant in his decision.

When they had reached a small room at the end of the hall she stood at the door as he set the candle down on the small end table beside a relatively large bed.

"Am I to understand that you live alone, Mr. Taylor?"

"You understand correctly."

"No cooks or maids?"

"Not a single one," he replied, pulling back the coverlet.

"I cook well, sir."

"Is that so?"

"It is," she replied, and continued on. "I can cook, sew and, if I may Mr. Taylor, clean as well as any well hired maid in the county. If I cannot convince you that I may assist you in the investigation, then perhaps I may be of use in other ways."

"Might I inquire after your insistence, miss.."

"Stella, sir."

"Alright, Miss Stella," he said. "Whyever should you desire to stay here? You are quite obviously a smart young lady and educated as I can observe from your posture."

She paused, swallowing hard. "I don't have any place else to go, sir."

It was his turn to slip into discomfited silence.

"Perhaps you may stay," he said and stood up straight again, motioning to the featherbed at her disposal. "For now, you should rest. I'll have a decision ready for you in the morning."

She stayed at the door and, as he passed her, she noticed the dark brushstrokes beneath his surprising eyes. "Mr. Taylor, don't you sleep?"

"I do not believe I know the meaning of the word, miss." He said, and bowed low, once, to take his leave.

* * *

AN: Hasn't been edited. I'll go back later and look it over. Just a one shot depicting a young 19th century version of strong, stubborn, impoverished Stella and a gentleman Mac Taylor who dabbles in the investigating business when the opportunity arises.

Disclaimer - Don't own Stella Bonasera or Mac Taylor.


End file.
